Before the advent of social networking, there were message boards.
Then My Space stormed high schools coast to coast.
Then there was Facebook, and everyone from 8 to 80 joined in.
Now the cyber-world is all-a-twitter about Twitter.
I don't use any of these services, as I receive sufficient self-flagellation from writing my blog, which currently has an audience of two people.
You see, to effectively use a social networking site, one has to have "friends" or at least people interested in your daily doings. I don't.
Now, I suppose I could be receiving "tweets" from D-list celebrities and bored members of Congress on their latest doings, but I doubt they have anything important to say to me. Especially in 140 characters or less.
I do, however, feel a certain empathy for the folks in that old Beatles song; you know the one -- hum along if you choose...
Eleanor Rigby (Lennon/McCartney)
Aah, look at all the lonely people
Aah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working.
Darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
If this sounds like a plea for more attention, forget it. I've been a loner for most all of my life. So were my parents. Being an only child, I learned a long time ago how to keep myself entertained. I also have a wife who dotes on my every word... don't you, honey?
Maybe I should invent a social network for the Eleanor Rigbys of the world who never learned how to cope.
Oh. Never mind. Someone did.
I think it's called Match.com.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
I No Longer Have A Teenager...
My youngest daughter turned 20 years old yesterday. My little girl, twenty?
Not just twenty; twenty with a full load in college, a full time job, and a Marine boyfriend who's just landed in Afghanistan. She has a very full plate for someone so young.
Earlier in the week, she saved a life, too.
An elderly woman comes into the store; picks up her prescriptions, and wanders off to do some shopping. A few minutes later, she's on the floor -- no breathing, no heartbeat.
My little girl administers CPR; orders others in the store to call 911; keeps working on the woman until the ambulance arrives.
The woman is alive today because of my little girl. And to top it off, this isn't the first time she's saved a life. All before the age of twenty.
She's accomplished more important things in her short life than I have in my 55 years. I'm awfully proud of that.
Not just twenty; twenty with a full load in college, a full time job, and a Marine boyfriend who's just landed in Afghanistan. She has a very full plate for someone so young.
Earlier in the week, she saved a life, too.
An elderly woman comes into the store; picks up her prescriptions, and wanders off to do some shopping. A few minutes later, she's on the floor -- no breathing, no heartbeat.
My little girl administers CPR; orders others in the store to call 911; keeps working on the woman until the ambulance arrives.
The woman is alive today because of my little girl. And to top it off, this isn't the first time she's saved a life. All before the age of twenty.
She's accomplished more important things in her short life than I have in my 55 years. I'm awfully proud of that.
Sidekicks.
Lost among all the frenzy about the death of Michael Jackson was the passing earlier this week of Ed McMahon. Ed lived a bunch of his professional life sitting on a couch, laughing at Johnny Carson's jokes. He wasn't the co host of the Tonight Show; his job was that of being a sidekick.
Sidekicks never get the accolades that their leader receives. They don't receive top billing or the rewards, monetary or otherwise. But there they are, right along side the big guy, loyal to a tee.
Some sidekicks do draw their own attention of sorts. Where would Don Quixote be without Sancho Panza? Sancho plays the everyman, lacking both the knowledge or the madness of his boss, but provides help in keeping him out of trouble.
The Lone Ranger had Tonto. Tonto never played dumb, though a lot of native Americans found his pidgin English annoying. Tonto, too, got the Ranger out of a lot of jams, as well as providing the Ranger somebody to talk to, a literary trick to provide information to the audience.
Lassie had Timmie. Captain Kangaroo had Mr. Green Jeans. Maxwell Smart had Agent 99. Our first President Bush had Dan Quayle. Quayle's job was to make his boss look smart by comparison.
I always thought of myself as a sidekick kind of guy. Not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but providing what illumination I could to the situation. My demeanor doesn't lend itself to leadership, I've found. I'm not the hero, but I've tried to be a good right hand man to a number of people.
The trick is finding the right person to be a sidekick for, though. Some of those Alpha Dog types have sidekicks that end up getting kicked in the side, or worse. Rule: Never be a sidekick to a megalomaniac who wants to take over the world. James Bond will kill you in the third reel.
Sidekicks never get the accolades that their leader receives. They don't receive top billing or the rewards, monetary or otherwise. But there they are, right along side the big guy, loyal to a tee.
Some sidekicks do draw their own attention of sorts. Where would Don Quixote be without Sancho Panza? Sancho plays the everyman, lacking both the knowledge or the madness of his boss, but provides help in keeping him out of trouble.
The Lone Ranger had Tonto. Tonto never played dumb, though a lot of native Americans found his pidgin English annoying. Tonto, too, got the Ranger out of a lot of jams, as well as providing the Ranger somebody to talk to, a literary trick to provide information to the audience.
Lassie had Timmie. Captain Kangaroo had Mr. Green Jeans. Maxwell Smart had Agent 99. Our first President Bush had Dan Quayle. Quayle's job was to make his boss look smart by comparison.
I always thought of myself as a sidekick kind of guy. Not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but providing what illumination I could to the situation. My demeanor doesn't lend itself to leadership, I've found. I'm not the hero, but I've tried to be a good right hand man to a number of people.
The trick is finding the right person to be a sidekick for, though. Some of those Alpha Dog types have sidekicks that end up getting kicked in the side, or worse. Rule: Never be a sidekick to a megalomaniac who wants to take over the world. James Bond will kill you in the third reel.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael Has Left The Building
If you wanted to pattern your death after someone, Elvis isn't exactly the best example I could think of. Yet, here we are, want to or not, hovering over every word of the L.A. coroner, analysing every detail of Michael Jackson's death, and the comparisons are uncanny. I suppose MJ wouldn't have had it any other way, had he had a choice in the matter.
We've gotten good at public sentiment when it comes to the early death of a celebrity. It's too bad I missed the hubbub over James Dean. The first I can remember (vaguely) was Marilyn Monroe. I was in, what, second grade at the time, and even I recall the media frenzy. Passing over the political deaths of the 1960's we all know so well, we had Otis and Janis and Jimi and then that great leap forward in public insanity surrounding Elvis in 1976.
I never understood that one. I always thought of Elvis as some sort of joke perpetrated on America by the redneck south. I mean, really... a semi-literate singer from nowhere who shook his hips, had a "jungle room," spent his money lavishly, shot his TV, and died on the toilet from too many drugs... a folk hero? Worthy of a postage stamp? Why should everyone get all shook up (pardon the pun) about the death of a celebrity so uncool the mere mention of his name incited laughter for more than a decade?
But suddenly, in death, Elvis was king once again. The women wailed at the gates to Graceland. The press swarmed. Priscilla, though divorced from the dork, became the low-rent version of Jackie Kennedy.
All that pales in comparison to what's going on now. The pop culture world has learned a lot about how to grieve. Thank Lady Diana for that one. Let's all troop down to MJ's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, or his rental house, or the hospital, or the family estate -- or all four -- and leave heaps of flowers and teddy bears. (Teddy bears? WTF.) Then, let's all sing songs like we did outside the Dakota where John Lennon was shot. Let's all cry for the TV camera, and tell the world what an inspiration Michael was. To pedophiles, I assume. And black men who want to be white. And wish to look like Elizabeth Taylor.
I'm even waiting for Elton John to rewrite "Candle in the Wind" again.
Was Michael Jackson talented? Sure. He was a good dancer, and singer. I think his "genius" should be really attributed to producers Barry Gordy and Quincy Jones, and the engineers and musicians who worked in the shadows while Jackson received all the credit. A good engineer could probably make even me sound good, when my recorded voice normally is akin to Kermit the Frog.
In a couple of weeks, once all of Jackson's employees are off payroll and the rent is due, we'll start seeing the exposes in the tabloids, on Entertainment Tonight, and in a few quickie books that are even now being prepared for the publisher, their authors burning the midnight oil this weekend, one eye cocked at the TV to capture the latest "news".
But, hey, it's the American way. In death, Michael is again King of Pop. He'd love the attention; you know he would.
We've gotten good at public sentiment when it comes to the early death of a celebrity. It's too bad I missed the hubbub over James Dean. The first I can remember (vaguely) was Marilyn Monroe. I was in, what, second grade at the time, and even I recall the media frenzy. Passing over the political deaths of the 1960's we all know so well, we had Otis and Janis and Jimi and then that great leap forward in public insanity surrounding Elvis in 1976.
I never understood that one. I always thought of Elvis as some sort of joke perpetrated on America by the redneck south. I mean, really... a semi-literate singer from nowhere who shook his hips, had a "jungle room," spent his money lavishly, shot his TV, and died on the toilet from too many drugs... a folk hero? Worthy of a postage stamp? Why should everyone get all shook up (pardon the pun) about the death of a celebrity so uncool the mere mention of his name incited laughter for more than a decade?
But suddenly, in death, Elvis was king once again. The women wailed at the gates to Graceland. The press swarmed. Priscilla, though divorced from the dork, became the low-rent version of Jackie Kennedy.
All that pales in comparison to what's going on now. The pop culture world has learned a lot about how to grieve. Thank Lady Diana for that one. Let's all troop down to MJ's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, or his rental house, or the hospital, or the family estate -- or all four -- and leave heaps of flowers and teddy bears. (Teddy bears? WTF.) Then, let's all sing songs like we did outside the Dakota where John Lennon was shot. Let's all cry for the TV camera, and tell the world what an inspiration Michael was. To pedophiles, I assume. And black men who want to be white. And wish to look like Elizabeth Taylor.
I'm even waiting for Elton John to rewrite "Candle in the Wind" again.
Was Michael Jackson talented? Sure. He was a good dancer, and singer. I think his "genius" should be really attributed to producers Barry Gordy and Quincy Jones, and the engineers and musicians who worked in the shadows while Jackson received all the credit. A good engineer could probably make even me sound good, when my recorded voice normally is akin to Kermit the Frog.
In a couple of weeks, once all of Jackson's employees are off payroll and the rent is due, we'll start seeing the exposes in the tabloids, on Entertainment Tonight, and in a few quickie books that are even now being prepared for the publisher, their authors burning the midnight oil this weekend, one eye cocked at the TV to capture the latest "news".
But, hey, it's the American way. In death, Michael is again King of Pop. He'd love the attention; you know he would.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Beep, Beep...It Ain't The Roadrunner...
Beep.
Beep...
Our attention this afternoon was directed to an unusual beeping sound coming from the den. Two beeps, then silence... for fifteen minutes. Then: Beep, beep.
After about an hour, we traced it to our Verizon FIOS box buried in a cabinet behind the couch.
Apparently, there's a backup battery in the box in case the power fails. Warning light indicated the battery was low on juice. Fish out screwdriver, pry case loose, and holy cow! What a battery! I was expecting your usual little 9 volt transistor radio job, or a flashlight battery. This one is about half the size of the one in the Honda Fit. Twelve volts, 7.2 amps -- I bet I could start a car with it.
And whoopee...Verizon may own the system, but it's up to us to replace it. I'm going to go put it on my car's battery charger and see if I can put some life back into the thing.
Technology sucks. All this isn't worth it. Sorry.
Beep...
Our attention this afternoon was directed to an unusual beeping sound coming from the den. Two beeps, then silence... for fifteen minutes. Then: Beep, beep.
After about an hour, we traced it to our Verizon FIOS box buried in a cabinet behind the couch.
Apparently, there's a backup battery in the box in case the power fails. Warning light indicated the battery was low on juice. Fish out screwdriver, pry case loose, and holy cow! What a battery! I was expecting your usual little 9 volt transistor radio job, or a flashlight battery. This one is about half the size of the one in the Honda Fit. Twelve volts, 7.2 amps -- I bet I could start a car with it.
And whoopee...Verizon may own the system, but it's up to us to replace it. I'm going to go put it on my car's battery charger and see if I can put some life back into the thing.
Technology sucks. All this isn't worth it. Sorry.
More Proof I Can't Work On Cars Anymore
So my little Honda Fit ran over a staple.
I didn't know it until the Tire Pressure Monitoring System (TPMS) warning light lit up on the dashboard.
Thanks, Honda... you probably saved me from changing a tire on the I-10 at 4 in the morning.
While the tire shop had the casing off to repair the puncture, I happened to look at the inside of the rim.
WTF? Here's this plastic chunk on the far side of the stem, about half the size of a cell phone.
I had no idea what it was.
Turns out, it's the TPMS sensor that radios the car's on board diagnostic system. How? I don't know. I hope to hell there's no battery in them. How do you balance a wheel with that thing in there, I have no clue. And what if the gas station you go to for air has a crummy compressor and pumps moist air into the tire? Will it rust?
I suppose they'll want to install new ones every time you buy a new tire. And they certainly will if you have a blowout, because it will become part of the road debris in the ensuing carnage.
Reading up on the things, it takes all sorts of special tools to diagnose and fit one, get it to talk to the computer, and, of course, there's almost a different sensor for every different Honda. Gag. Good luck fitting custom wheels to one of these cars. Oh, and don't use a copper stem core, or even an unplated cap -- this can cause the sensor to fail. Great. Just great.
Good thing I quit working on cars, because I'd be tempted, in about another fifty thousand miles,of ripping the whole damn system out when I start paying for all these parts and diagnosis. Just give me a damn valve stem, OK, Mr. Tire Man? Make mine copper, too.
Reminds me of that scene in "2001 A Space Odyssey":
"Open the Pod Bay doors, HAL."
"I'm sorry, I can't do that, Dave."
"HAL, open the Pod Bay doors."
"I can't do that, Dave."
....and later Dave has to pull HAL's plug, circuit by circuit.
I didn't know it until the Tire Pressure Monitoring System (TPMS) warning light lit up on the dashboard.
Thanks, Honda... you probably saved me from changing a tire on the I-10 at 4 in the morning.
While the tire shop had the casing off to repair the puncture, I happened to look at the inside of the rim.
WTF? Here's this plastic chunk on the far side of the stem, about half the size of a cell phone.
I had no idea what it was.
Turns out, it's the TPMS sensor that radios the car's on board diagnostic system. How? I don't know. I hope to hell there's no battery in them. How do you balance a wheel with that thing in there, I have no clue. And what if the gas station you go to for air has a crummy compressor and pumps moist air into the tire? Will it rust?
I suppose they'll want to install new ones every time you buy a new tire. And they certainly will if you have a blowout, because it will become part of the road debris in the ensuing carnage.
Reading up on the things, it takes all sorts of special tools to diagnose and fit one, get it to talk to the computer, and, of course, there's almost a different sensor for every different Honda. Gag. Good luck fitting custom wheels to one of these cars. Oh, and don't use a copper stem core, or even an unplated cap -- this can cause the sensor to fail. Great. Just great.
Good thing I quit working on cars, because I'd be tempted, in about another fifty thousand miles,of ripping the whole damn system out when I start paying for all these parts and diagnosis. Just give me a damn valve stem, OK, Mr. Tire Man? Make mine copper, too.
Reminds me of that scene in "2001 A Space Odyssey":
"Open the Pod Bay doors, HAL."
"I'm sorry, I can't do that, Dave."
"HAL, open the Pod Bay doors."
"I can't do that, Dave."
....and later Dave has to pull HAL's plug, circuit by circuit.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Shell Oil Company Gives Me Gas
Shell is touting their new gasoline as being "nitrogen enriched". Supposedly, this new formula results in a cleaner burning engine.
Uh huh.
Now, your average car engine mixes roughly 15 parts of air with one part gasoline.
And air already consists of roughly 78 percent nitrogen.
so... just how much more nitrogen can Shell possibly stuff into that one part of gas to make any difference?
ah... not much.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Uh huh.
Now, your average car engine mixes roughly 15 parts of air with one part gasoline.
And air already consists of roughly 78 percent nitrogen.
so... just how much more nitrogen can Shell possibly stuff into that one part of gas to make any difference?
ah... not much.
Just thought you'd like to know.
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